


all exits look the same

by fishycorvid



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Around Season 2, Case Fic, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Ianuccis, Light Angst, Metaphors, Motifs, Not Canon Compliant, Rain, Soft and sad, and other assorted shit, cases, i feel bad for hurting jake, me projecting my own sadness onto characters, pre 2x23, too many lame motifs to keep track of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 09:26:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14133150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishycorvid/pseuds/fishycorvid
Summary: Probably, Jake should’ve argued when Amy offered to drive him home. Just to stay with him and work the case and maybe order takeout, because it’s been forty-eight hours since either of them slept. But that brings him into a headspace that’s, for lack of a better term, dangerous. Not physically, but emotionally. Lack of sleep brings him into this liminal space where he starts noticing things that he maybe shouldn’t be noticing on her.





	all exits look the same

**Author's Note:**

> title from "I and Love and You" by the Avett Brothers, a couple lines inspired by other random songs. 
> 
> enjoy!

Probably, Jake should’ve argued when Amy offered to drive him home. Just to stay with him and work the case and maybe order takeout, because it’s been forty-eight hours since either of them slept. But that brings him into a headspace that’s, for lack of a better term, dangerous. Not physically, but emotionally. Lack of sleep brings him into this liminal space where he starts noticing things that he maybe shouldn’t, like the slight quirk up of her lips when she catches him looking at her, the pretty flush that sits high on her cheeks when he catches her watching him, the soft cascade of her hair down her shoulders (wondering, unfortunately for his sanity, how it might feel tangled up in his hands), her nibbling absentmindedly on the cap of a cheap ballpoint pen. 

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Jake sighs and scrubs a hand through his unruly hair. God, the case has been grating on them-- cold case murder of an Ianucci affiliate, 17 years old, nothing more than a kid who’d gotten way out of his depth. Maybe he shouldn’t be trying to solve this case running on empty, but he also can’t let himself sleep, not when he knows- knew- the kid. He’s been fiddling around with the car radio the whole drive, mostly just to screw with Santiago but also because he needs to do something with his hands or he’ll end up going insane. 

“Peralta,” she snaps as he reaches back for the dials and he freezes, widened eyes feigning innocence. 

“Yeah, Santiago?” Jake lifts an eyebrow at her as if daring her to say something. 

She doesn’t take her eyes off the road, just huffs a little and taps a finger against the wheel. “Listen,” Amy starts to say, and then stops. 

Jake waits, silence pressing down on him. The light in front of them flashes red, and Amy slowly comes to a stop, movements calculated and fluid and graceful, brows furrowed a little in focus. The red light streaming in through the car windows makes her glow and seem almost ethereal in this dark night. Rain begins to hit the car arrhythmically, gathering momentum until it’s a pounding on metal that’s almost soothing against the noise of Brooklyn around them, and Jake still can’t look away, and he’s still waiting. 

Amy fidgets, jerking the steering wheel a little from side to side, and sweeps hair out of her face with a brush of her fingers. “I’m listening,” Jake says, and she almost jumps, eyes darting towards him for a moment, dark and unfathomable. 

“Listen, just--” her fingers drum almost inaudibly against the steering wheel; she’s nervous and something feels off between them, kind of like the way he’s trying to anticipate when the next raindrop will fall on the windshield and always being just a second too early. “Stop screwing around with the radio,” she murmurs, looking away too quick for him to look her in the eye. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles, and draws his twisting fingers to his lap, instead electing to look at her out of the corner of his eye. The light turns green, and the car pulls forward. Amy’s hair sweeps in front of her eyes like a curtain again, and she just looks so damned soft. Round eyes and plush lips and strands of hair flickering across her cheek and the smooth junction of her neck and jawline and the little marks on her skin, marks that tell him she too has lived. Has stayed out too long in the sun and ran into things headfirst (sometimes literally) and has been scarred by her time here. 

Jake breathes out, slowly, and wants her so bad it _hurts,_ wants her in any way he can have her. 

The rest of the drive to his apartment passes in silence, except for the whoosh of the cars and the unpredictable pounding of the rain. 

___________

Amy gets out of the car once they reach Jake’s apartment and tries to believe things are normal, but facts are facts. And the fact remains that Jake was looking at her, really actually honest-to-God looking at her with an emotion she can’t quite identify. The freezing rain hitting her face feels like a blessing compared to the stoplight-tinted haze of the car ride here, and even as it soaks into her sensible pantsuit, she smiles, relieved. 

Jake springs out of the car full-speed, laughing, and suddenly he’s just a kid jumping in puddles, holding his hands up to the cloudy night sky as if in prayer. Giggling, he races around the car towards her and kicks at the water near her feet. She splutters and jumps out of the way just in time. 

“Oh, it is _on,_ Peralta,” she growls, a grin curling her lips up unbidden. 

He smiles his open-mouthed, most gleeful smile, rain splattering across his cheeks. “Come and get me!” he yells, sprinting away towards the door to his apartment complex. Amy catches him before he can make it and shoves him at the wall underneath the gutter. He yelps under the cold spray coming out of the pipe and struggles out of the stream. “Ames!” Jake gasps in mirthful offense. “How could you!” 

Amy grins and crosses her arms, eyeing him up and down triumphantly (and, okay, maybe a little appreciatively). His hair is dark and flattened to his head, his clothes are sticking to his body, and he’s attempting to wipe the water off his face with his wet hands. _Dammit,_ she thinks, and her heart jolts unexpectedly. _There’s really no way out of this, is there?_ Out of what, she's not sure, but she's pretty sure it's irrelevant either way.

He tilts his head at her, brow furrowing and smile fading. “Ames? You okay?” 

She shakes herself. “Yeah, I’m good. Duh. I’m totally good. Nay, great.” 

A small smile is on his face, but his eyes are tired and maybe wary. “Let’s get you inside.” 

___________

Jake is oddly reminded of a phrase he’s heard maybe one or twice in his life, never memorably, always from someone who grew up far away from New York. _Earthquake weather._ The suffocating heat in the air, the stillness, the waiting, the breathlessness, the feeling of limbo; in this way, locals always believed they could predict an earthquake. He’s mentioned it to Amy before; she’s replied that she’s pretty sure it’s a myth with a little bit of science thrown in. Either way, he feels it now, except the earthquake weather is internal rather than external. 

Regardless, he and Amy are both soaked from the rain, it’s freezing in his house, the case files are forgotten in the car, and it’s one in the morning. Without the streetlights casting shadows across her face, in the dim but harsh light of his kitchen, she looks exhausted. 

“Lemme get you some clothes,” he says, and darts off into his bedroom, pawing through his dresser drawers for some acceptable sweatpants and the old NYPD sweatshirt that he probably stole from Terry years ago. Through his half-closed blinds, city lights filter into his bedroom, and his hands still for a moment as he looks at the rain-smeared scene. Distantly, far below him, he can hear cars and words and people, living their lives as entirely isolated from everyone else, both alone and constantly surrounded. Jake’s body feels heavy all of a sudden, his skin too tight on his bones, and he sinks onto his knees and stares at his cold, wet fingers where they rest against his floor. 

He wonders if he’ll ever solve that locked-room case. Not suicide, not natural causes, not poison, had to be murder; no windows, no clear signs of breaking and entering through the door, no secret room, no way it could only be locked from the inside. How many murderers could there be, anyway? How many ways can a single person die? 

A clenching of fists. An exhale. A reminder that things generally work themselves out. 

A hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” comes a murmur from his right. “We’re gonna figure it out. We always do, right?” Almost unconsciously, Jake leans back into Amy. She’s freezing cold and he’s pretty sure she’s dripping water onto him, but he’s somehow warm and maybe even okay. Hesitantly, she wraps her arms around him. “You’re exhausted, Jake. Get some sleep.” Her head is tucked underneath his jaw, where his shoulder meets his neck, her stomach pressing into his back. 

He closes his eyes and waits for the choked feeling to leave his throat. “I pulled out some clothes for you. You can use my shower if you want. I think…. Yeah, okay, whatever, I’ll get some sleep.” As he continues talking, Amy can feel the bravado seeping back into his voice. 

(But she still isn’t sure whether or not the wetness on his cheeks was from the rain or not.)

___________

When Amy goes back into Jake’s bedroom, the man is dead asleep, snuffling softly under the covers. His chestnut brown hair is fluffy from where he must’ve dried it with a towel, and he’s changed into some soft gray t-shirt. She can’t help but smile at the sight of him looking so, well, innocent in the multicolored flashes of light coming from outside, and fights the urge to smooth down his hair. 

She stands there longer than she realizes, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and tries not to think about how the murdered kid could’ve so easily been him-- God, she doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the Ianuccis probably thought that poor kid was the mole. 

“I’m gonna solve the case, Peralta. Mark my damn words,” Santiago whispers, words cutting through the sound of the rain hitting the roof. 

Jake stirs in his sleep, but does not awaken. Amy smiles tiredly and leaves the door open. She likes being able to see him from his kitchen counter.

___________

When he wakes up, lifting himself to a half-upright position, there’s dim light streaming in through his half-open door. “Ames?” he calls out, but it comes out as a rough breath.  
From the kitchen, Jake can hear bare feet on the floor, pacing restlessly. _Amy Santiago,_ he thinks, just like that, full name and everything; the voice in his head is almost reverential. Slowly, unsteadily, Jake swings himself out of bed and gets to his feet, wandering out into his kitchen nook. Amy stands near the counter, a case file spread out in front of her, wandering back and forth on the kitchen floor. Her hair is down and loose around her shoulders and she’s dimly lit by the flickering lightbulb overhead. More than anything, Jake wants to focus, but he’s too tired and she’s too beautiful. He clears his throat quietly, and she turns, guilt and a bit of panic flashing across her face.

“Did I wake you?” 

“Nah, don't freak, Santiago. I’m just… awake.” 

She chuckles humorlessly and leans wearily against the counter. “I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to solve the case.” 

“They thought he was the mole, didn’t they? When it was really me?” 

The lingering smile faded from her face, leaving only this lost look that almost breaks his heart. “Yeah.” 

He’s suffocating. His lungs won’t expand or contract, so he’s just stuck _here,_ in this never-ending moment, with Amy Santiago staring at him, her eyes wide and shining with unshed tears, the ticking of his wall clock in the living room, the hard corner of his counter pressing into his ribs. 

“I know,” she says, and folds him into her arms, burying her head into his chest and pulling him close, as if maybe she can protect him from the world but mostly just himself. “It wasn’t your fault. I promise.” He laughs a broken laugh and holds her tighter. 

“I’m sorry. God, I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have to deal this just because I couldn’t sleep, and--” 

“Don’t be,” she says softly, pulling back. “I couldn't either.” 

The inscrutable look he’s begun to recognize is back in her eyes. Earthquake weather stifles their breath. 

She learns forward slow, giving him time to pull away, to crack a dumb joke, to divert her back into a hug. He does not. He thinks, _maybe it’s okay if the ground splits in half._

Amy’s lips touch his, soft and hesitant, and linger. He allows himself to give back, try to speak without words for once in his life; pulls her to him and solidly pressing his lips to hers. It’s soft and sad and comfortable and belongs just right with the rest of it all: the rain and the earthquake weather and even the exits on the highway, flickering past the precinct car too fast for him to make out the words. Jake winds his arms around her hips and listens to the rain. She moves back, forehead leaned against his, breath on each other's lips, his nose resting against her cheek. 

“We’ll solve this,” she says, voice quiet and breathless, and he believes her. 

“C’mon, insomniac. We need rest.” 

The night is long, but it feels shorter when she’s wrapped in his arms.

___________

When Jake wakes up for the second time that night, sun is streaming in through his blinds, and Amy Santiago is curled up against him, clad in sweatpants and an oversized sweatshirt, breath against his pulse. For the first time in over forty-eight hours, he smiles for real.

 _Yeah,_ he thinks, _we’ll solve this one too._

**Author's Note:**

> this is a weird sloppy brainchild, but i hope you liked it anyways! thanks for reading, and please leave a comment if you've got something to say (good or bad)


End file.
